


The Weight of Nothing

by Nova42



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 11x17, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Brotherly Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode: s11e17 Red Meat, Gen, Overdose, Post-Episode: s11e17 Red Meat, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-07
Updated: 2018-05-05
Packaged: 2019-04-19 13:42:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14238519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nova42/pseuds/Nova42
Summary: He wasn't sure how much loss a person could hold without it crushing them. He carried a graveyard around on his soul full of ghosts and grief, full of all that he'd lost and those he couldn't bring back. He never noticed how heavy absence was until it was resting in his hands, until he found himself suffocating under the weight of nothing. Tag to 11x17 Red Meat.





	1. Chapter 1

* * *

 

_You boys die more than anyone I've ever met._

They say when standing on the brink of death your life flashes before your eyes—your hopes, your regrets, your "should-a, would-a, could-a," wishes and wants. They say these things all play out like some well-worn filmstrip, but Dean's died enough times to know that's not true, not really. He's died in multiple ways: fast, slow, drawn out over the course of a year. Sometimes it was a painful struggle to release that last exhale, and other times it was over before he knew it was happening. Sometimes it was a kind of coldness that crept up and settled into your bones, and others it was an all-consuming heat that scorched you from the inside out, burning through the soul.

No matter how it happened, the fact still remained that his life never flashed before his eyes. There had never been last-minute regrets, no things he wished he could have done better, not that he didn't have those things. He had plenty of regrets—a whole legion of things he wished he could have done better—but none of those things ever came to mind while he lay on his proverbial deathbed. There was only ever pain or cold . . . and Sammy. Always Sammy.

_Take care of Sammy._

_Keep your brother safe, Dean._

It was an order that never had to be given; it had always been his responsibility. From the first time their mother walked through the door carrying the impossibly small life bundled in a blanket, Dean knew it would always be his job to make sure his little brother was safe, to make sure that as long as he was around nothing bad would ever happen to him.

God, how he'd failed.

Dean could remember with painful clarity each time his brother had been seriously wounded, each time he lay close to death, each and every breath that failed to come after.  _Those_  were the times Dean's life flashed before his eyes; those were the times when he recalled all the things he wished he'd done better, the choices he'd have given his own life to change, the silences that should never have existed.

He watched as the werewolf shot Sam, watched as his brother gaped in shock before his knees buckled and he crashed to the floor. Dean had failed to keep his little brother safe, and it felt like the world had once more been ripped out from under his feet.

Despite the panic and overwhelming fear that threatened to drown him then and there, Dean brutally forced everything out of his mind to focus on what needed to be done: remove the bullet, stop the bleeding, save the victims, get Sam to a doctor. The news about there being others— _other_  werewolves—only helped to drive him deeper into survival mode. Once they were all safe, once his brother wasn't bleeding out and was securely bundled up in itchy hospital blankets and on so many painkillers he wouldn't know which way was up, only  _then_  would Dean tuck himself away in some out-of-the-way corner and let everything crash through him, let himself feel the weight of everything that transpired and every way he failed.

When he walked back into the cabin to find his brother lying as still as death on the floor, he'd almost let all those things in. He'd been ready to let grief consume him, had been ready to let the werewolves in and either kill every last one of those sons-of-bitches or die trying.

_I guess that's what I do. I let down the people I love. I let Dad down._

_And now I guess I'm just supposed to let you down, too._

He'd been denied the chance to grieve by the lives of those still depending on him for survival, so Dean shoved everything down once more, focused single-mindedly on the task at hand, and let that carry him through the rest of the day. He hadn't allowed himself the luxury to stop to think about anything; it'd all been action and reaction.

Then Corbin dropped to reveal an injured but very alive Sam standing in the middle of the hallway. Dean felt relief rush over him, much like the fistful of drugs he'd swallowed not even an hour ago. The relief in itself had nearly been enough to do him in, and he'd practically passed out all over again. The only thing keeping him conscious was the knowledge that his brother was still in rough shape, still in desperate need of medical care. It had taken him a few minutes to push back the darkness crowding the edges of his vision and gather himself enough to make it the few feet to his brother's side.

In the end, it had been Michelle that fetched a doctor and found someone to take care of Doctor Kessler—who'd been lucky enough to only be knocked out. Dean hadn't been able to do much of anything, and everything he  _had_  been able to do, none of it had made a difference.

_I don't need to feel like hell for failing you, okay? For failing you like I've failed every other godforsaken thing that I care about!_

Dean dragged a hand down his face, squinting in the light of the dying sun as it cut like knives through his already aching head. He wanted to drive straight through to the bunker; it was only a twenty hour drive, and he'd made it further under less steam. For everything that had happened, he hadn't actually felt too bad . . . at first. But it wasn't long into the drive when the adrenaline that had been coursing through his veins—natural and otherwise—finally gave out, and he began to feel every bump and bruise, every sore and aching muscle and each broken piece of rib scraping along the inside of his chest with every breath he attempted. He felt dizzy and nauseous and hot and cold all at the same time. His heart was racing too fast, and his head felt too light. He felt his walls wearing away like a straw dam caught in a flood, tugged down by the weight of all of those things he'd been trying to not think about, to keep at bay.

Convincing Sam to stop without giving himself away hadn't been hard; the drugs the clinic had given his brother when they'd stitched him up were starting to wear off, and Sam had been quick to agree that spending another fifteen hours cramped in the car sounded more like cruel torture, even if it meant spending the night in some little fleabag motel.

Dean slowly turned the wheel, guiding the Impala into the parking lot of a nicer motel one block farther down the road. Something a few steps up from their normal haunt, something less likely to fester a life-threatening infection within his little brother.

* * *

_When you thought I was dead . . . what did you do?_

_Thought about redecorating your room, you know, putting in a Jacuzzi, a nice disco ball—really class up the joint._

Sam didn't believe for a second that Dean hadn't thought him dead. He'd known his brother all his life. They'd lived in each other's back pockets for more than thirty years now, and he knew without a sliver of a doubt that the only way Dean would have ever left him behind, no matter how much Sam begged him to, was if Dean thought his little brother was dead, and even  _then_  it would still take some outside force to compel Dean to leave. Something like the lives of two victims who wouldn't survive without his help. Even without that knowledge, Sam could see it in Dean's posture, could see his eyes screaming the truth he refused to give words to.

Sam wasn't afraid of dying; he hadn't been for a long time. It wasn't that he  _wanted_  to die—he was very much happy to stay alive and would always fight with everything he had within him to survive. It was too ingrained in him to do otherwise. But he'd seen Heaven, experienced Hell, and walked through Purgatory; he knew what each of them held.

_So the next time you or your brother bite it, well, you're not going to Heaven . . . or Hell. We're gonna make a mistake and toss you out into the Empty._

The Empty, however, he knew nothing about that, and there had been no lore on it he could find. In hindsight, he should have asked Cas, but that ship has sailed, at least for now. Sam wasn't afraid of what the Empty could be. He was oddly okay with it. If his soul ended up there, there could be no deals or exchanges to bring him back. At least that's what the reaper, Billie, had said, and there was a cold comfort to be taken from that.

_I had to look out for you. That's my job._

His only concern was leaving his brother behind. Dean was strong, much stronger than anyone ever gave him credit for, but he didn't do well on his own, didn't make the best choices when the only one he had to look out for was himself. Dean would never knowingly put the world or innocent people at risk, but, when it was his own wellbeing on the line, he never stopped to consider other options, safer options. He only ever considered the outcome that was best for everyone else. And, sometimes, Sam worried about what Dean would do if the worst should ever happen.

Sam could be—and has been—just as bad as Dean: he could be just as single-minded and destructive in his choices when faced with the worst. There had been more than one occasion that, in his need to protect his older brother, he made the situation worse. Or, in the most recent case, unleashed a force that not only has some weird connection with Dean but also apparently wants to do a system reset on the universe. He didn't fear his own death but the impact it would have on those left behind.

Sam was painfully yanked out of his thoughts as the Impala hit a pothole while pulling into the motel parking lot. He couldn't help the small sigh of relief that slipped past his lips. Initially, he'd hoped Dean would push to make the drive all the way to the bunker, but a few hours into the trip the drugs from the clinic had started to wear off, and he was feeling sore and stiff and longed to stretch out. When Dean suggested they stop for the night, Sam was nearly giddy at the prospect. But not solely for his own benefit. He hadn't missed Dean's ashen complexion, nor the pain that deepened the lines of his face, growing more pronounced every time the older man moved. Sam knew his brother was beat, even if he wasn't willing to admit it.

The motel looming ahead of them looked nicer than the type of place they usually stayed at, and Sam wasn't going to complain; it would be a nice change to sleep in a bed that didn't smell of stale alcohol and old cigarettes. It wasn't until after the car had pulled to a stop, ticking as she cooled and himself with one foot out the door, that he realized his brother had yet to move from behind the wheel.

"Dean?"

Dean's head jerked, just slightly, at Sam's call, but that's about the only part of his body that seemed to show any signs of life. He blinked heavily, and then with what seemed to be an inhuman amount of effort rotated his head to meet Sam's suddenly worried gaze.

Dean's complexion was an unnatural and frightening shade of white, the bruises under his eyes providing the only color. Even from across the short distance of the bench seat, Sam could see that Dean's breathing was shallow and faster than what would be expected of someone who'd spent the last handful of hours sitting still. Sam shifted on the bench, reaching a hand out so his fingers brushed against his brother's jacket. "Dean . . . you okay, man?"

Dean jerked his head once more. "Yeah." He paused, licked his lips, and then shook his head lightly. "No," he amended, his voice rough like he'd swallowed some broken glass and chased it down with a hot lava shooter.

Dean had trouble admitting to things. He wouldn't admit his feelings when the need arose, nor would he ever willingly admit to being in pain. He was hardwired to hide any and all things that could be perceived as a weakness, emotional or physical sensations. It was a lesson taught and enforced by his father, his brother, Bobby, and life in general. So when Dean Winchester—the man who'd been to Hell and back, who'd spent a year fighting to survive the unspeakable horrors of Purgatory— _did_  see fit to admit something was wrong, that was something Sam stopped and assigned a high degree of importance to.

Dean shifted in his seat, a wince passing over his face as he brought a hand up to cradle his right side. "Might've busted some ribs."

"What? Dean, why didn't you say anything? We were just at a clinic—"

Dean held up his hand, cutting off Sam's tirade. "Chill, Francis. I did say something while you were getting sewed up. One of the nurses checked them out, and everything's where it should be."

Sam jerked his head back, opened his mouth, and then snapped it shut once more. "You willingly sought medical treatment?" Sam paused, then added, "Christo."

Dean rolled his eyes, grimacing as he did so. "Shut up." He pressed his fingertips against his forehead. There was a very noticeable tremble in his hand that he either didn't notice or was simply too tired to hide. Both options had Sam's concern for his brother jumping up a few more notches.

"I'm just beat, man," Dean started in a low, dull voice. "It's been a long day, and we can both use some rest."

Sam pursed his lips into a thin line, knowing full well that his brother was holding something back, but he also knew that pushing Dean only caused him to retreat further or push back. Sam nodded once.

"All right, man." He started pushing himself out of the car, then paused once more, looking back at his brother. "If you need something, you know, for pain, the clinic gave me some of the good stuff, and I think I have, like, two refills on it."

Dean's eyes snapped over to meet his, and a look crossed over his face too quickly for Sam to identify before he swallowed thickly and shook his head. "Naw, man. I'm good."

"You sure?"

"Yeah." Dean sat still a moment longer, then slowly started the process of unfolding himself from the car.

Sam could tell the older man was in a considerable amount of pain, but he wasn't all too surprised that he turned down the offer for any heavy drugs. Dean had always been reluctant to take anything stronger than Tylenol, and even then it was only if he absolutely had to. Sam had never completely understood why. He could understand not taking anything that would screw with his head during a hunt, when they needed to be alert for danger, but Dean often refused it while they were safe in the bunker as well.

Sam pressed a hand over his wounded, bandaged side and looked at Dean from overtop the car. "Hey, you, uh, you okay to get the bags? And I'll check us in?"

Dean's face scrunched slightly, like it was taking him an unnecessarily long moment to process Sam's words, before finally answering, "You sure?"

"Yeah, man. I think I can make it the few yards to the front office and back."

Dean slid his eyes over to the motel, then back to Sam, and nodded. "Yeah, okay."

Sam studied his brother for a moment longer, not sure he was liking how compliant Dean seemed to be, and wondered—not for the first time—exactly what all went down when Dean thought he was dead. Lately, Dean had been more honest, more forthcoming with the sort of things he'd normally keep close to the chest if not outright lie about, and Sam didn't want to ruin that streak by pushing Dean to talk when he wasn't willing or ready. He would wait his brother out, at least for the night, and see if Dean opened up somewhere between here and the bunker. They were both dead on their feet, and it was possible his brother just didn't want to talk about it  _right now,_  rather than at all.

Sam tapped the top of the Impala before pushing off and making his way to the front office. The desk clerk—an older man with a handful of graying hairs swept across his crown in some poor attempt of a comb-over—squinted from behind his wide-rimmed glasses like he wasn't sure Sam could be trusted to stay in one of the rooms. He was suddenly glad Dean hadn't come in, as he was sporting bruises around his neck from Corbin's stranglehold, and a few ugly marks nestled around his left eye.

Sam relied on his best  _trust me, I'm completely harmless_  smile as he handed over one of their better fake credit cards to the man and asked for two queens.

The man stared at him for a moment longer before making a grunt as he ran the card and handed it back with two keycards, mumbling something about a ten o'clock check-out time.

Sam smiled his thank-you, taking the cards and hobbling out as fast as his injured body allowed him, practically drooling at the thought of lying down and getting some real rest, some real sleep. He met Dean halfway, looking down at the cards as they walked toward the building.

"Room, uh . . . 11A. First floor." Sam was grateful for the location of the room; he didn't even want to  _think_  about trying to crawl up any stairs.

He slid the keycard into the card reader and shoved the door open into a decently sized room framed by walls painted a soothing shade of light gray. On the right side of the room sat two queen-sized beds, each with a plush bluish-gray blanket that perfectly matched the carpeting stretching across the room. Directly across from the beds sat a forty-inch flat screen TV atop a dark wood dresser. A small kitchenette area with a sink, microwave, and small refrigerator sat just off to the left side of the door, and at the far end was a closed door that Sam could only assume led to the bathroom. The whole room appeared to be devoid of any stains and smelled . . .clean. Not a whiff of anything stale or unseemly that they'd come to associate with motel rooms.

Sam was a little surprised his brother would spend the money on a place this nice but wasn't going to argue the idea, and he would instead enjoy it while he could.

"Nice." He walked into the room then looked back over his shoulder at Dean. "You want first crack at the shower or . . . ?"

Dean dropped their duffels onto their respective beds and waved Sam off. "Knock yourself out, man." He paused, then wagged a finger in Sam's direction. "Be careful with those professional-grade stitches. If I have to redo any of them, they won't look as pretty."

Sam snorted. "I think I can handle a shower."

"Uh-huh."

Sam opened his duffle, rooting around until he dug out his shower bag along with a pair of sweats and the softest T-shirt he could find. He then made his way into the bathroom, finding a dark and tastefully tiled floor and wall. Studying the room, he couldn't help but wonder if the person who designed the rooms had something of an affinity for the color gray. He cast the insignificant thought aside and started shucking his clothes, winching when he came to his shirt, slowly working it off while trying to move his left arm as little as possible so not to pull at his side.

He stepped in the shower, taking a moment to enjoy the steady stream of hot water as it ran over the tense and corded muscles throughout his body. Despite how good the water felt, he showered quickly, not wanting to expose the hole in his gut to more than what was needed to get clean.

Sam dressed, dragging the towel through his hair as he stepped out of the bathroom. He paused at the door, surprised to find Dean not only already in bed—boots strewn haphazardly near the foot of his bed—but appearing to be completely passed out. He waited on the threshold and fought with himself for a moment, debating between his need to check up on his brother to make sure he was okay and the want to let the older man get the sleep he was in desperate need of.

The choice was taken out of his hands by the shrill ring of his cellphone. Sam gingerly stooped, grabbed his discarded jeans from the floor, and dug the cellphone out of the pocket, emotions caught between worry and relief when Dean didn't so much as flinch at the loud noise in the otherwise silent room. He spared his brother another glance before answering the call.

"Hello?"

" _Hi, this is Doctor Kessler—from the Cotton Wood Urgent Care Clinic."_

Sam frowned, needing a moment to recognize the name and the doctor who'd been knocked out by Corbin not long before he arrived.

"Oh, right. Is, uh, is everything okay?" They couldn't be sure that they'd succeeding in killing all the werewolves that had been hanging around town, so before leaving Sam had left his number with one of the attending nurses in case any stragglers or anything else of a supernatural nature happened to show up.

" _Yes, everything is fine here. Is this Sam Winchester? Dean's brother?"_

"Yes," Sam answered slowly, shooting a glance across the room at his sleeping brother.

" _I woke up after . . ."_  She cleared her throat.  _"Well,_ after _, and was informed your brother had left without any further medical treatment."_

A line worked its way across Sam's forehead. "You mean for his ribs?" Dean already admitted to the injury and said he'd gotten his ribs checked before they left. He had no reason to lie about it, but even if he did it seemed like an odd thing for the clinic to take the time to call about.

" _His ribs? No—I mean, they're a concern as well, but . . ."_  She paused before asking,  _"Didn't he tell you?"_

A cold shiver spiked through Sam's chest, settling like a heavy weight in his stomach.

"Tell me what?"


	2. Chapter 2

Dean hovered in the soft gray that hung in the gap between oblivion and awareness; somewhere in a small corner of his mind he knew he shouldn't move to close to the vast, dark emptiness, knew that if he slipped too deep there would be no coming back. But maybe that wasn't such a bad thing, because maybe he didn't  _deserve_  the chance to come back. The things he's done, the people he hurt, the people he failed . . . it seemed like every time he tried to help, to do the right thing, he fucked up royally, or worse, stood by while someone else succeeded where he couldn't. Maybe he'd earned this, and maybe slipping quietly into that darkness would turn out better for everyone.

He could hear someone talking, but it was nonsensical, voice and cadence swirling together until Dean couldn't tell where one word ended and the next began. It didn't matter, though—he was tired, and the struggle toward awareness was becoming harder with each passing moment. He just wanted the chance to sleep, to let go of everything, to finally  _rest_ , but there was an odd echo from a corner of his mind reminding him that he had to  _fight_ , that he had to  _hold_   _on_. That was important; he couldn't remember  _why_  it was so important, only that it was.

The weightless gray world he'd been lingering in started to press down on him from all sides, suffocating him until his chest was bound so tightly that his breathing was reduced to a thin slipstream that seemed more pointless than anything. His body moved, or someone moved it for him, as he desperately attempted to pull air into his starving lungs. A searing pain lanced through his side, stealing away what little breath he'd been able to find.

In stark contrast to the fiery pain in his side was that cold air engulfing him, swallowing him, threatening to drag him back toward the darkness, back toward  _comfort_.

Dean felt hands on his face, welcome warmth seeping into his chilled skin and pulling him closer to the surface, but bringing with it  _pain_.

"Hey. Come on, man, I need you to wake up."

His mind rolled the words around, struggling to assign a face to the voice he knew better than his own.

Fingertips tapped at his cheeks like annoying gnats that refused to be ignored. "C'mon, Dean. Open your damn eyes."

_It was Sam. Always Sam._

He was tired and weary and couldn't remember why he was even fighting anymore, but Dean had never been able to deny his little brother.

He blinked heavily as the image of Sam blurred unsteadily before his eyes. The faintest hint of a smile pulled at the corner of the kid's mouth and Dean could see pain in his brother's gaze, but he couldn't remember why it was there. The thoughts kept slipping through his fingers like tiny pieces of broken glass. He couldn't hold on to them, and the harder he tried the more it  _hurt_.

His eyes felt heavy, like gravity had made it a personal mission to drag them down. Someone had told him long ago,  _You can't fight gravity_. Or maybe that was a hall, or a city. He wasn't sure it really mattered anymore; he was freezing, his side was burning, and his chest felt as thick as peanut butter when he tried to breathe. He was too tired to care. He didn't want to fight it; he let his eyes slip shut. Gravity could have this round.

"No, no, no, no. C'mon, man. Don't—" The gnats were back. Tapping at his cheeks, gripping his chin. "Damn it, Dean!"

The hands mercifully disappeared, but before he could breathe a sigh of relief, a sharp pinpoint of pain stabbed into his thigh, followed swiftly by a burning sensation erupting at the spot and quickly moving outward until it faded beneath every other part of his body that was suddenly screaming for his attention.

Dean pushed the pain away and allowed himself to sink back into the soothing embrace of nothing, back to where it was warm and pain-free. He'd almost slipped completely under when his stomach spasmed tightly, then rolled with a vicious and unrelenting need to expel everything he'd ever eaten—immediately. He gagged and tried to push himself up but couldn't coordinate his limbs enough to pull off the deceptively simple task.

Suddenly, there were large hands on his shoulders rolling him onto his side and shoving a bucket under his face, giving his gut all the encouragement that it needed to begin turning itself inside out.

"Whoa, easy." The same hands curled around his shoulder, keeping Dean from tipping off the bed as gently as possible as his stomach emptied itself and he continued to dry heave. "Easy."

The voice sounded steady and unsurprised, like he'd been expecting Dean to cop it and prepared ahead of time.

Dean groaned, wrapping his arms around himself as the convulsions set off a chain reaction that rocketed in a circuit around his obviously broken ribs, ratcheting the pain from a  _hurts like hell_  to  _just fuckin' kill me now_. He didn't resist when the giant paws on his shoulder shifted, moving him back away from the edge of the bed while keeping him on his side. They lingered for another moment before sliding off completely; he then heard the sound of a chair shift and someone sigh heavily.

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly as his insides decided on one more flip and pressed a shaky fist against his mouth, silently begging his stomach to stay where it was. After what felt like an exhausting battle of wills resulting in a barely won victory, Dean dropped his hand to the soft mattress, too tired to do much more than simply breathe.

The memory of Sam being shot, of him lying lifeless on the ground, crashed through his mind; Dean's eyes blew wide with the overwhelming need to see his brother whole, intact, and healthy.

"Sam?" Dean raked his eyes over his brother's form, sitting in a cushioned chair pressed flush to the bed, elbows braced on his knees and his hands cradling his face. He took in every detail his foggy mind could manage, then asked, "You 'kay?"

Sam dropped his hands to fall limply between his knees and looked up at his brother. "Yeah, Dean. I'm fine." He sounded anything but fine—something was wrong.

Dean longed to slip back into the darkness where there had been no pain—and no worries—but the wounded look etched across his little brother's face held Dean captive. He needed to fix that first, then he could rest.

"Sam?" Dean racked his brain, trying to figure out what could have unsettled his brother, made him look so worried and worn out, but his mind was a jumbled mess of cottony, vague memories of the two of them driving and checking into the motel, and neither activity warranted a bedside vigil.

Sam narrowed his eyes softly as if he was quietly debating on something. Dean had seen the expression many times before, usually when his brother was developing some plan of attack on a hunt, and he distantly wondered what it was Sammy was hunting for.

"Dean—" Sam started sharply, then stopped and pressed his lips into a thin line before seemingly changing tracks and asking instead, "How are  _you_  feeling?"

The question felt loaded, like there was some sort of message behind it, or a warning of sorts, but  _God_ , he was tired on  _so_  many levels and having enough trouble focusing his eyes, let alone his thoughts. He instead opted for the safe answer, the one that was as natural to him as breathing and required no thought whatsoever.

"Awesome." A shiver rocked his frame, belaying his words as he clenched his teeth around the chill and resulting pain.

Sam made a small hum under his breath, a sound that seemed caught between the lines of frustration, disbelief, and something else that Dean couldn't quite put his finger on.

He pressed a palm against the bed and attempted to roll onto his back, hoping to relieve some of the pressure on his side, but was stopped by the same giant paw from earlier.

"Easy, man. Stay on your side."

His brother said more, but his words became low and warbled, and his face kept blurring in and out of focus like there was a foot of water between them. Dean squeezed his eyes shut then blinked them open.

"Wha?"

Sam shifted closer, his hand still on Dean's shoulder, holding him still with little effort.

"—laying on your injured side might help with your breathing."

"My . . ." He trailed off, pressing a hand against the side of himself that was broken and attempting a deeper breath, only to pull up short when a sharp stab lanced up through his ribcage, squeezing his lungs and stealing his breath. "Fuckin' hurts."

This wasn't the first time he'd broken bones. It didn't happen often, but more than he'd care to admit. Breaks were always painful and always a  _bitch_  to deal with, but nowhere in his hazy memory could he remember it ever hurting quite this much.

Sam made that humming sound again, and Dean instantly decided he hated that noise.

"It's a side effect." Sam paused for a moment before adding, "From the Narcan. It, uh, it blocks the body's ability to regulate pain or something like that." He ended the statement with a small shrug.

"The what?" Dean frowned, struggling to make some sense of what his brother was saying.

"Narcan?" Sam reached over and picked up a small empty box from the nightstand, held it up for Dean's blurry inspection. "It's, uh, used to reverse the effect of opiate overdose." Another pause, chopping his explanation into bite-sized pieces, easier for Dean to digest. "You know, like barbiturates, for instance."

Dean cleared his throat, letting his eyes drop from his brother's face, and considered for a moment whether he could get away with pretending he didn't know what the hell Sam was talking about, but he knew that it would only manage to piss his brother off more than he already was, and, from the deceptively calm, sharp tone his brother was using, Dean was guessing that they were already at pretty damn pissed.

"How did you . . ."

Sam's eyes narrowed dangerously, and Dean immediately knew he'd picked the wrong question to lead with.

"Doctor Kessler called about an hour ago, worried about the fact you weren't in a hospital being closely monitored after you overdosed in a  _suicide attempt_. You should be in a hospital right now. You realize you could still die from this, right?"

He  _didn't_  know that, actually. The lasting effects of an overdose hadn't seemed terribly important at the time. Dean rolled his lips against his teeth, choosing the safer route of not answering the question and instead asked his own.

"Not that I'm complaining, but why haven't you . . ." He let the sentence trail off, losing steam and strength halfway through, struggling just to pull in enough air to combat the black spots dancing on the outer edge of his vision.

"Taken you to the hospital?" Sam dragged both hands down his face. "Do you know what would happen? If I took you to the ER for a drug overdose they would admit you to the mental ward and keep you there for observation, and then how long do you think it would take them to find out that you're on the FBI's most wanted list, or that you officially died,  _twice_?"

"Thought Charlie erased all that?" During one of Charlie's visits to the bunker she'd cheerfully informed them that she'd created some kind of program that went through multiple police and FBI databases and erased all files and records containing the names Sam or Dean Winchester, along with a few other aliases that'd been burned. She'd spent the rest of the day showing Sam how the program worked and . . . other nerd-related crap.

"Doesn't mean there isn't other stuff out there that given enough time and enough digging . . ."

Dean pressed his lips together, then hitched a shoulder. "Don't need a hospital anyway. Feel fine."

"Dean." Sam blew out a harsh breath then gave him a look that said he wasn't even gonna entertain the absurdity of that statement.

Dean shifted uncomfortably in the bed. He hated lying down during an argument; it made him feel exposed, vulnerable. He wanted to sit up, find a position somewhere closer to equal ground with his brother, but every muscle spasm and twitch weaved painfully throughout his chest and twisted his stomach, which threatened once more to turn it inside out before the day's end.

"Sam, I wasn't trying to—"

" _Kill yourself_? Dean, there's no fine line between that and not caring if you live. They both lead to the same place!"

"That's not what happened."

His brother raised a hand, cutting him off. "I'm not an idiot, Dean."

"Sam." Dean drew a shallow breath, wincing as it stabbed though his chest.

"You tried to make a deal, didn't you? For me? Do you have any idea . . ." He trailed off, a look of concern mixed with a liberal amount of frustration painting his face. Sam stood up from chair, hand pressed against his wounded side as he paced a few steps away then turned back to face him. "God, Dean, I thought we were past this."

"What? Me protecting you? Sorry, Sammy, that's never going to change."

"No, Dean!" Sam threw his arms out to the side. "This idea you have in your thick, obstinate skull that your life somehow has less value than mine!"

Dean's fingers tightened around the bedsheet and he shoved himself upward, aiming to match his brother in both volume and position, but he didn't even manage to get halfway there before a vice squeezed around his chest and all of the air was sucked from the room.

He gagged around his suddenly stubborn, utterly worthless lungs, and the room grew fuzzy and gray around him. He was disoriented enough to know only that he was seconds away from puking whatever his stomach had left to offer but couldn't be sure where the mess was about to end up.

Suddenly Sam was there behind him, handsy as ever and pushing him upright, shoving a clean bucket under his face as he was sick.

The strain on his ribs was beyond description, the pain  _exquisite._  Dean had a fleeting thought that the pain alone would kill him, and the shake in Sam's hands on his shoulders made him wonder if his brother wasn't thinking that same exact thing.

Dean wasn't sure of how long it took to get his stomach back under control, or how much time it took for his brain to remind his lungs of their function, but it felt like forever before the black spots scattered from his sight, before he was able to draw a thin breath and the throbbing in his ribs died down to barely manageable.

"Easy, dude. Just breathe."

Dean swallowed thickly, wincing at the acidic taste coating his tongue as he reluctantly leaned back against his brother's support. Sam shouldn't be supporting him, shouldn't have to. It was his job to support his little brother, to protect him, but now he could barely hold himself up, hold himself together. How was he supposed to protect Sam, stop Amara?

Dean grabbed a fistful of the comforter draped haphazardly across his lap; he tried to drag himself away from his brother's support, but his whole body seemed to be working in concert against him. He gritted his teeth as the pain ricocheted from one end of his body to the other.

"Easy, Dean. I got you."

_That's the problem._

Sam slid away from Dean, stuffing a few pillows behind him, providing Dean with the ability to sit up without putting a strain on his ribs. Dean allowed himself to sink back against the pillows, taking slow, steady breaths as Sam sat back down in the chair, wincing as his side pulled painfully.

Sam let out a soft snort and glanced around the motel room. "Good thing you decided to drop the extra cash for some place nice for once."

Dean slid his eyes over to his little brother, silently waiting for the man to finish his thought.

Sam pressed a hand against his wounded side, shifting uncomfortably in the large chair.

"Looks like we may be here awhile. I can't drive right now, and there's no way that you . . ." Sam shook his head softly.

"Doesn't matter," Dean mumbled, talking to himself more than his brother.

Sam turned back to Dean, his eyebrows arching high. "What doesn't matter?"

Dean swallowed a bitter chuckle. All the choices Dean had made, all the actions he'd taken— _they_  meant  _nothing_. They accomplished  _nothing_.

He'd left Sam behind to save the man that had tried to kill him and risked death to save a brother that didn't need his help. Dean hadn't even been able to save himself; Corbin had nearly choked him to death before Sam stumbled in, bleeding, barely conscious, and saved them both. And that was just the most recent in the ever-growing list. The worst of it wasn't even that he did something and made things worse, but that he tried to do something, tried his hardest to help, and in the end . . . it didn't matter. He was just a witness to things happening around him with no real influence to the outcome.

"Dean?" Sam leaned forward. "What doesn't matter?"

Dean pulled his attention back to his little brother. He wasn't sure how much loss a person could hold without it crushing them. He carried a graveyard around in his soul full of ghosts and grief, full of all that he'd lost and those he couldn't bring back.

"If we stay here"—Dean hitched a shoulder—"Lucifer and Amara will still be there in the morning."

He never noticed how heavy absence was until it was resting in his hands, until he found himself suffocating under the weight of nothing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Few notes, Narcan is another form of Naloxone that you can get over the counter in emergency O.D. kits. I did a lot of research on Narcan, Barbital, and side effects from both the write this chapter. I did stretch a few things for the sake of the story but 90% should be medically accurate. I won't bore you with all the details here but if you have any questions feel free to pm me. I would love to share what I know.


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